Black Tie
by AllzStar
Summary: I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm about to fly to New York City to see a goddamn play. I'm about to see Kyle again. It's been two years. If there is a God, Kyle will have thrown out those stupid jeans. Because if not, I may have to rip them off of him, and God forbid he ever puts them on again if he's not with me. Kyman. SEQUAL TO KYLE'S JEANS. Rated T.
1. When I Think Of You In The City

**Black Tie**

_By AllzStar_

_A/N: Umm whaaat? I don't even know how this happened._

**Chapter One: When I Think Of You In The City**

_When I think of you in the city_

_The sight of you among the sights_

_I get the sudden sinking feeling_

_Of a man about to fly_

_Never kept me up before_

_Now I've been awake for days_

_I can't fight it anymore_

_I'm going through an awkward phase_

_Demons, The National_

Stan Marsh is a fucking moron.

I don't know how many times how many people in how many scenarios have uttered that sentence in this lifetime, but I swear it's up there with "The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost...".

That being said, all I am thinking as I drag Stan's drunk ass out of yet another sticky-hot-mess-rave-dorm party, is that Stan Marsh is a fucking moron. His puke is on my shoes. Again. They are now my Stan-puke shoes. Birks' knockoffs. Forty bucks at Payless, motherfuckers.

Jesus _Christ. _I am so done being both his roommate and his babysitter. I only moved in with him because I simply had nowhere else to go. Now I would much rather still be at home with my disintegrating mother.

No. That's not true. That's a bit extreme.

I don't want to put Stan in my car because I know he's going to puke again. I found that out the hard way four times ago.

Instead, I prop Stan up against the side of the building. He is mumbling nonsense to himself; I can see his eyes trying to focus on something—anything—around him. Impossible because a) it's too dark outside to see anything even whilst sober, and b) even if it were light out he is too drunk to focus at all.

I really need to get out of Colorado.

Denver, in all its snowy, freeze-your-balls-off, Rocky mountainous glory, is a bitch in the wintertime. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck. I can feel my pulse thudding in my veins there. I fish in my pocket for a cigarette.

Stan pukes. All over himself. I light up and take a long, slow drag.

Snow is swirling around me, dusting my shoulders, my hair. I'm a barrel of a dude. I've lost a shit tonne of weight since graduating high school but I have still somehow maintained my massive size. In addition to growing another three inches, I have put on literally pounds of muscle. Better than being a fat piece of lard, I suppose.

I debate just sending Stan home in a cab.

Cigarette still burning between my fingers, I go back into the dorm in search of a plastic bag. I push my way past streaking sorority girls and some guy guzzling beer from a funnel. Sure enough, in the communal kitchen area, there are a few bags lying around that people no doubt brought alcohol in.

I emerge from the dorm with three plastic bags. Stan is kareening over the lawn, stumbling in the snow, laughing his tight little ass off. I grab him by the hood of his jacket and steer him towards my car, shoving the bags into his hands.

"You puke in my car," I tell him as I open the rear passenger side door, "and I swear to God I will chop your balls off in your drunken sleep."

He nods, as if he has any notion of the severity of my threat. I push him, cop-style, into the car. He flops down onto the backseat and promptly passes out.

I shut the door and sigh, and finish my cigarette, squishing it between my toe and the slushy asphalt. The sky is too cloudy to see the stars. The air smells like Christmas.

Fuck, I miss Kyle sometimes.

I push that thought out of my head immediately. I won't think of him.

Kyle—

I go around my car to the driver's side and get in, shivering as I start the engine and blast the heat.

I wonder what New York looks like this time of year.

I wonder what he looks like now.

Stan Marsh is a fucking moron.

I turn on the radio, softly so as not to disturb Stan from his slumber—although I doubt anything could have at that point—and drive. The National croons out at me through the speakers (_When I think of you in the city / the sight of you among the sights_), and for a moment, just a tiny moment, I let myself think of Kyle.

The little redheaded Jewish fuck had promptly moved to New York City shortly after gradution. He got into TISCH or Julliard or some other nauseatingly expensive place. It came as no surprise to anyone, really. I can see Kyle in New York—all artsy-fartsy and gay as Broadway. The last thing I saw on his Facebook page before unfriending him was a slightly blurry camera phone picture of him at some dark bar, the flash illuminating his bleary drunk gaze, some chunky dude's arm draped around his thin little bird neck. The caption read, _Sloppy night with these fabulous fags! :D 3 – with Kyle Broflovski and somerandomfuckwhocanandwillsuckabigdickbutpreferablynotkylesplease_

Our last conversation had gone like this:

_*Ding*_

_Kyle: Hey_

_Me:_

_Kyle: How r u_

_Me:_

_Kyle: I'm moving to NYC_

_Me:_

_Kyle: Thought we could hang out before I leave?_

_Me:_

_Kyle: Eric?_

_Me:_

_Kyle:_

I lean my head back against the headrest of my seat as I ease my old gal onto the highway. I want another cigarette.

Stan and I had been stupid enough to not live on campus at U of D. Instead, we live in a little bungalow about a twenty minute drive from the university. I like to call it the House of Douchebags. Because really, that's what it is. Six bedrooms: two occupied by Stan and myself, respectively. Two of the others are inhabited by the most godawful, hemp-wearing, chia seed-drinking, sun-worshipping hippies known to man: Alex and Amethyst (NEED I say more?). And the last two house the scummiest, faggotiest fucks of all: Craig Tucker in one, and Kenny McCormick in the other. Lately, though, their rooms have been interchangeable.

Oh, yes. My dearest friends Craig and Kenny discovered their mutual interest in cock sometime within the first two weeks of moving in to the place.

The ride doesn't feel long enough. Soon I am pulling into the driveway of the House of Douche, and Stan is violently vomitting into one of the plastic bags (I turned in my seat to make sure of where exactly it all was landing).

I drag Stan from the car and sling his limp arm over my football shoulders, half carrying him into the house. I lock my car as an afterthought, aiming the remote over my shoulder.

The house reeks of weed. The two A's (Alex and Amethyst, or the Assholes for short) are lounging in the living area, their dirty disgusting feet tucked on the couch beneath their respective asses, praying to whatever moon God that governs the planet they came from. They barely acknowledge me as I shuffle in, tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter before dealing with Stan.

I throw Stan down onto his bed and drag the waiting bucket out from under his bed. I have learned that no matter where Stan pukes, I will ultimately be responsible for cleaning it up. It is better to be prepared.

Closing the door to Stan's room softly behind me, I pad back down the hall to confront the Assholes.

"Guys," I grunt as I come around the corner, "Madeleine is coming tomorrow to inspect the place. I don't think she'll appreciate the stench of weed clinging to every surface in the goddamn house."

"Relax, man," says Alex, smiling lazily up at me. "We'll open the windows tomorrow. Let the house breathe. It will all be right, brother."

"Don't call me that," I snap. I head for the kitchen. I hear Amethyst giggle behind me. It's all I can do to not throw the fucking espresso machine at her.

I think about calling Kyle.

What a stupid thing to think.

I find Kenny in his room. He's only wearing sweat pants, and he's reading a porn mag. Typical.

Kenny and I have a weird relationship. Things got awkward during high school and shortly after. We were best friends for awhile, but it got...complicated. I thought I was gay then Kenny thought he was gay but he turned out to not actually be gay while I continued being gay until I got to college and finally fucked a woman then Kenny thought I was just in denial but I really just don't know anymore and Kenny ended up being bi or confused or something. Maye I had just really loved Kyle, but the thought of general dick just doesn't appeal to me.

"Hey," I say, leaning in his doorway.

He makes a sort of noise in greeting. "What's up?" he asks, putting the magazine down and stretching his arms over his head.

"Brought Stan home."

Kenny makes a face. "What is that? Third time in two weeks?"

"Something like that." I shuffle my feet, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Hey, have you..."

"Heard from Kyle?" Kenny grins at me wolfishly. "Yeah. Briefly a couple days ago. Says his school is putting on some play and he's hoping to get the lead."

I nod. "Cool."

Kenny doesn't let up. Of course not. "Why don't you just talk to him yourself."

I look at Kenny mournfully. "You know I can't do that."

"Yes, you can." Kenny gets up from his bed and walks past me. "You just won't."

I sigh, lingering in the doorway. If there is one thing Kenny has always been and always will be, it's fucking right.


	2. How'd I Get So Faded

**Black Tie**

_By AllzStar_

A/N: I highly suggest you guys listen to the songs I will be posting at the beginning of each chapter. Also, apologies for the butt-fuck-load of exposition in these first couple of chapters. Cartman is depressed and reminiscing, okay?! Give him some tiiiiime...

Cover photo by JeyDS on DeviantArt.

**Chapter Two: How'd I Get So Faded**

_I got sinning on my mind_

_Sipping on red wine_

_I've been sitting here for ages_

_Ripping out the pages_

_How'd I get so faded?_

_(Bloodstream, Ed Sheeran)_

The next morning, I find it more difficult to get out of bed than usual. I hit snooze about ten times, until I literally have twenty-two minutes until class starts. In the morning rush-hour traffic, it will take me at least twenty-one minutes to get to school. I quickly brush my teeth and pull on a pair of jeans, then grab my backpack and head it.

As I pull out of our neighbourood and onto the highway, I light a cigarette. I started smoking during the summer after graduating. I like it. It reminds me that I am in control of my own impending death. Depression won't take me as long as I have cigarettes.

I remember my mother's face on the day I moved out: tears welling in the corners of her eyes and her mouth pressed in a thin line. She had begged me to write to her. I'd said, "No way in hell, Mom. Sorry. I love you."

I remember Stan's face as I told him what was on my mind that night at Stark's Pond: free of judgement, his hooded eyes dark with concern, his mouth wrapping around his third cigarette. That was when he had unofficially become my best friend.

I remember Kyle's face as I left him on the doorstep of his house: hands slack in his jeans pockets, his mouth slightly open, eyebrows knitted together on his forehead, blood-red curls softly framing his cherubic face.

Shortly after that, the unfairness of it all had hit me like a tonne of bricks. I had realized I needed to stop blaming Kyle for all my troubles, all my heartache. He had loved me, in his own way. He had tried to at least maintain a friendship with me. I had been the one to ultimately push him away because the jealousy I felt about everything was crushing me. Not just he jealousy, but the fear. I was afraid of getting hurt again, afraid of my sexuality, afraid of my future. Kyle had simply been riding through a patch of turbulence on his flight through youth, asking for love in all the wrong places. And I'd been the thid person to break his heart that year.

At that point, it had been too late for me to turn around and apologize. So I left town.

I sigh as I pull into one of the massive parking lots at the University of Denver, choosing a spot furthest away from the doors. I need the few extra minutes to walk across the parking lot to finish my second cigarette and swallow the rising dread in my chest. The Facebook image of drunk Kyle with that guy seems to be imprinted onto the inside of my eyelids. I don't want to see it anymore but it won't go away. Who knows what else has been posted there in the past six months since I unfriended him for good. He could be famous. He might be seeing someone.

No matter how much he had hurt me, I still can't bear that thought.

OOO

Kenny and Craig are having sex when I get home. I can hear Craig whining and screeching from outside. I can even hear Kenny's shitty bed squeaking.

God fucking damn it.

To my utter dismay, I feel my pants tighten at the sound of it. Ashamedly, this is not the first time I've been turned on by the sound of my rommates fucking. Part of me wants to stick around and listen to them, maybe even get myself off to it. The other part of me, the bigger part, wants to chop my own dick off for even considering such a thing.

It's Kenny grunting that really sets me off. God damn, but that is one sexy noise.

I decide to meet my parts halfway. I enter the house, making a beeline for my room. The Assholes are in the kitchen, seemingly unphased by the sound of buttsex happening ten feet away from them. I shut the door to my room behind me and yank my headphones on, blasting shitty scream-o music into my ears until Craig's screams seem to blend in with the track.

I guess I should have always known Craig Tucker would be a bottom. Figures.

I lounge on my bed, headphones still on, and prop my laptop open in my lap. Sign on to Facebook. Wendy Testaburger has posted an ultrasound still. Eighty-nine people have liked it. Sixty of those eighty-nine people have written various versions of "ZOMG CONGRATULATIONS YOU'RE GONNA BE SUCH A GOOD MOM OMG WE HAVE TO GET OUR KIDS TOGETHER FOR PLAYDATES SOMETIME LA LA LA LAAAA!"

I think I throw up in my mouth a little. I wonder, briefly, if Stan knows about this. They broke up almost two years ago, but the kid tends to be sensitive about all things Wendy, especially since she married the guy she started seeing a month after dumping Stan's ass.

A knock on my door. I don't know how I hear it over the screaming in my ears and the screaming down the hall. Brazenly, I glance at my watch. It's been a fucking half hour and they are still going at it.

Stan comes in. I yank off my headphones. Huh. It seems they actually have stopped fucking. I guess my music just sounds like Craig Tucker in heat. Never listening to that song again.

"Dude," Stan says, stradling my desk chair. He looks like hell and a half. "Did you see Wendy's post?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, man. Crazy."

He grimaces, taking a big swig of his monster bottle of Gatorade. His sweatpants are riding up in the crotch. I try not to notice the way the fabric has started to shape around his renoundedly big dick.

I swallow roughly. "I'm sorry, man."

He shrugs, but I see the mournful look in his eyes. "Whatever. I wouldn't want a fucking kid at this age, man. What a waste. She had so much potential."

I try and hold his gaze but he won't look at me. "Are you okay?"

"Meh." He stands and stretches, his shirt lifting up, revealing his flat, toned stomach, the ripple of his lower abdomen muscles, the sparse dusting of dark hair on his navel...

Calm down, I don't have a crush on my best friend. I just think he's fucking sexy as hell.

"Fuck I'm hungover." Stan rubs his stomach.

I raise my eyebrow at him. "You were a mess last night, dude. I'm, like, actually getting worried about you."

He shrugs. "I'm fine." Something about how he says it makes me think that he is not, in fact, fine. But then he says, "I'm actually worried about you."

I purse my lips. "What? Why?"

Stan's eyes wander around my room, avoiding my gaze. "You're depressed as fuck, man. Don't deny it. Everyone knows."

I make a grumpy "hmm" noise and fold my arms across my expansive chest.

Stan continues, "Kenny and I have been thinking about taking a trip over Christmas break. We want you to come."

"Where?"

"Uh..." Stan rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. "New York."

I snort out a bark of laughter. "Yeah. Not happening."

"Kyle got into that play," Stan says. "He wants us to come see it. He's the lead role, dude. And apparently the plays there are really good."

"Since when do you give a fuck about theatre?" I stand and walk past Stan and out of my room, padding towards the kitchen. The raven-haired fuck follows me, so I toss over my shoulder, "I'm not going."

"You are," Stand says, walking around the island to face me as I grab a beer from the fridge, "because I already bought your plane ticket."

I slam the fridge door shut. "Give it to Craig, then."

"Craig's going to the Dominican for the holidays."

"Well, someone else then!" I shout, twisting the bottle cap off with a dish towel. "I'm not going. I don't want to see some stupid play and I sure as shit don't want to see—" I stop, taking a long swig of beer.

I hate the sympathetic look Stan is giving me. "Come on, Cartman."

"Since when do you even care about the little Jew rat anyway?" I demand. "It's not like you guys are best butt buddies anymore."

Stan holds his hands out in front of him. "Don't lash out at me, man. I'm just trying to help you."

"You think seeing Kyle will help me?" I roar. I've had enough. "If you really wanna help me, you won't say his name again!"

Stan sighs. "You know what? Fine, whatever. Don't go to the show, don't see Kyle. But come to New York with us, man. We'll be there for New Years. Times Square. It'll be awesome. Kyle-free."

I think about it. For a long, drawn-out moment, I really think about it. It would be nice to get out of Colorado for a bit. It's what I've been itching to do for awhile. It would get to hang out with my friends in a huge, strange city and drink till I can't remember what pain feels like. But even if I don't go see the show, how do I know I won't see Kyle at any other point in time while we're there? The risk just seems too great.

"I don't know, man," I say, suddenly weary as the anger leaves my body. "I'll have to think about it."

Stan looks relieved. "You can't avoid him forever, dude. You know that, right?"

I finish my beer. "Yes. I can."

Stan shakes his head. "Sometimes I forget how fucking stubborn you are. Then you remind me."

"It's like I always say. People don't change."

Stan is quiet for a moment. I get another beer from the fridge.

"It would be the four of us," he says quietly.

"Huh?"

"If you come to New York. If you see the show. After. It would be the four of us again. Together."

I roll my eyes. "Jesus. Sometimes I really wonder if you're a fag, too."

Stan's blue eyes are hard as ice when he looks at me. He says nothing, but I know he's dead serious. He wants this. God damn it. A little part of me wants it, too. Back when the four of us were thick as thieves, things seemed a lot simpler. But it has been years since then. It's not the same anymore. And, despite what I always say, despite the fact that people never really do change—it never will be the same for us ever again.


	3. The Heights of Shame

**Black Tie**

_By AllzStar_

**Chapter Three: The Heights of Shame**

_A soldier on my own, I don't know the way__**  
><strong>__I'm riding up the heights of shame__**  
><strong>__I'm waiting for the call, the hand on the chest__**  
><strong>__I'm ready for the fight and fate_

_(Iron, Woodkid)_

In the end, I agree to go to New York.

Stan's stupid eyes are what did it. He kept giving me this sad puppy-dog look for about a week until finally, after a long ass day and a ridiculously difficult midterm that I most likely failed, I yelled at him across the dinner table: "FUCKING FINE! I'LL GO TO NEW YORK WITH YOU!"

A huge smile broke out across Stan's face. Kenny's Cheshire cat grin was growing full force. "Will you see the show, too?" Stan asked delightedly. "We have to buy tickets ASAP."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don't push it, Marsh."

It was enough for Stan, anyway. He reached across the table for a high-five. "You're making the right decision, bro."

"Yeah," I said, slapping his open palm with mine. "Now don't make me regret it."

I now have little under a month to prepare myself for the possibility that I might see Kyle while we're there. Considering the fact that I will definitely be partying, and Stan and Kenny are sneaky fucks, the chances of bumping into him are higher than I would like them to be. At least I can take this time to mentally prepare myself; although I know that really, I'm kidding myself by thinking any sort of preparation could benefit me in the event that my eyes do find Kyle's. At that moment, I know I will be permanently done for.

And that's enough goddamn Kyle for today.

I grab my gym bag out of my room and head to the kitchen to fill up my four-litre water bottle (really just an empty milk jug, lesbihonest). The Assholes are nowhere in sight and Kenny is still at school doing god knows what. Craig is lounging in the living room, smoking a dubie, his dank-ass blue toque sitting sloppily on top of his head. He recently got a buzzcut and it makes him look like a goddamn Nazi. I'd never tell him that, of course. I do value my balls being in fact attached to my body, after all.

Anyway.

I grab my keys, kick on my sneaks and head out the door.

Ever heard of the freshman fifteen? It's this saying that college freshmen put on fifteen pounds during their first year as a result of poor nutrition and poorer bank accounts. During our first year, the residents at House of Douche all took this tradition in stride in different ways. Craig simply packed on the fifteen pounds, right to his gut. He has slowly been working it off since then; we are into our third year of college and he's lost about ten of those pounds. Mostly through rigorous buttsex with Kenny and god knows who else. But hey, exercise is exercise.

Kenny himself has added about fifteen notches to his belt since starting freshman year, and I don't mean that he's loosened his pants none. I don't know how he does it, him being a mere five-foot-eight and nothing but a bag of bones with some pasty skin and thick blond hair slapped on top, but the dude gets around. Guys, girls, anyone, really. I once asked him if he thinks he's bi. His response: "A hole is a hole, bro." Nice.

Stan and I, however, have gained probably around ten pounds of muscle each. I carry most of it in my chest and shoulders, as leg day sucks balls, especially when your legs are kinda stumpy like mine. Stan's muscle distribution is a little more proportionate; the fucker could model Calvin Kline, I'm telling you, with his smoky blue eyes, sharp jaw and toned body. Anyway, he and I have been hitting the gym together four times a week since the first week of first year, and we haven't missed a session since.

It's weird how much being out of high school can change a person. When you're in high school, you're basically in an administrated bubble, a tiny little piece of a completely fabricated world. You are the way you were when you first started, as a tiny little fuck toddling off to kindergarten wearing gay shoes that light up. From then on you are typecast as whatever makes you the greatest target for the rest of them. High school is _so _not the real world. The real world is way more fun. Not to mention nobody gives a fuck about trivial little dramas that happened years ago. High school is like a past life. There was a time when I fucking hated Stan Marsh's guts. We've swung more punches at each-other throughout the years than hockey players. Where my hate was more due to the fact that Stan was the apple of Kyle's gay eye, Stan's beef with me was simply…well, that I was a fucking asshole, really. Do I blame him? Hell, no. I'd have beat my ass up, too, if I met me on the street.

Now that I mention it, there was a time when I would have gladly socked every person that I now live with. Stan, Kenny, Craig—the Assholes we didn't know before this, but I still would have beat the shit out of them had I known them before—I have a history of hate with all three of them. But it's all in the past now. The best thing about the real world? The past stays in the past.

Now, these fuckers are probably my best friends.

I walk by Stan's door later that evening, on my way to my room to probably jerk off and watch an episode of _Game of Thrones_, not necessarily in that order, and overhear a conversation I will unfortunately never forget.

"I don't know what you want me to do, Kyle," Stan is saying, his voice hard and very un-Stan-like. "I convinced him to come to New York. That's all I can really do." A long pause. I am frozen against the wall. I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but the sound of Kyle's name has seemingly possessed me. "Look, he has every right to not want to see you. You haven't seen him these past two years. I have. I know what he's like. Trust me, dude, seeing you will only make it worse."

Fuck. I don't need Stan defending me like this. He's making me sound like a complete pussy. Okay, maybe I am a little. But I definitely don't need Kyle knowing that.

Stan sighs, then. _Come on, Stan. Don't let him win_. "Kenny and I bought enough tickets for all of us. But if Cartman doesn't wanna come, you gotta respect that. We'll scalp his ticket or something, I don't know! He's my friend, Kyle. I'm not gonna mess with him like that." Stan then makes an exasperated noise. "Don't give me that. Of course you're still my best friend."

_Barf._

"Yeah, well, it's kinda hard when one of us takes off to fucking New York for two years and never comes back! You're doing your thing, I'm doing mine. It doesn't mean I don't _like _you anymore. But I respect Eric's wishes, dude."

I can't hear anymore. Silently, I slink away.

Moving the fuck on…

I'm just gonna skip to the next day, because the jerking off/_Game of Thrones_ plan was pretty much the extent of my evening.

So I guess I've kind of been seeing this chick. I haven't mentioned her yet because, well, to be honest, I don't know what she really is to me. I met her in one of my horrid English classes, we've hung out a few times, fucked a few times more, and I guess I just sort of enjoy her company. Anyway, her name is Mallory Chang. Yes, she is like, a quarter Asian. No, I don't really give a fuck. And plus, she's gorgeous. And not in a Maxim way, either—in a regular, down-to-earth, round-glasses-and-choppy-haircut kind of way.

Anyway, we've just fucked for a good forty minutes. I'm trying not to show how fucking exhausted I now am. She, meanwhile, bounces up and grabs her bra, placing the straps over her milky shoulders and hoisting her perfectly perky tits up into the cups. Her dark hair is sticking out every which way. It's adorable.

"I'm going to New York," I tell her. I don't know why I say that in that particular moment in time, but oh well.

She pulls her sweater over her head. Her hair gets all staticky. "Oh? When?"

"Christmas."

"Okay." She pulls her panties on and sits in my desk chair, chewing on her bottom lip. "Eric?"

"Yeah." All I wanna do is shower. The sticky, post-sex sweat is not a good look.

Mallory is thinking hard. I can tell by how furiously she is gnawing on her lip. "Look. I know we haven't—talked. About us. And. I just wanted you to know: I'm seeing someone else, too."

I'm not really surprised. The girl is a fucking bunny. "Okay."

"Okay, cuz like. I hope that's cool?"

"Do what you want," I say casually. "It's not like we set, like, rules or anything."

"Um." She runs her fingers through her hair. "Are you gay?"

Fucking what? That has my attention. I sit up and pull my covers over my lower half, suddenly feeling very exposed. _Draw me like one of your French girls. Wait, _what _now_? "Why would you ask that?"

"You like just seem...gay."

"_Seem _gay?" I demand, genuinely offended. I don't know why I'm offended—obviously there's nothing wrong with being gay, especially seeing as for the longest time I thought I myself was exclusively gay. I guess I just don't like being called out on that shit by someone who doesn't know dick about me. "How does one _seem _gay? And why are you fucking me if I _seem _gay? Better yet, why would _I_ wanna fuck _you_?"

"Jesus Christ. I'm sorry. I'm not judging you. We're in college." Mallory offers a sweet smile. "The time for experimenting. I just thought you might be, and I thought we could, like, talk about anything."

Shaking my head, I get up and pull on my boxers. "You should probably go."

"Eric, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I gotta shower and stuff. Homework. You can see yourself out?"

She looks like she wants to say more, but I guess she knows me better than I thought she did, because she pulls on her pants and leaves. Instantly, I feel bad. Hoping that a shower will wash away these feelings, I eagerly jump in, shivering in the coolish water. I crank the heat as soon as I have washed off the thin sheen of sweat still on me, letting the devilish water pound onto my back. I'm just starting to relax when Kenny bursts into the room.

"Dude!" I shriek, my hands instantly covering my goods. Kenny smirks at me through the glass door as he tosses a used condom into the toilet. "_Dude_!" I yell again.

He blinks at me innocently. "What?"

"That's why the fucking toilet has been so backed up! You're not supposed to flush those, asshole! And, also, _whatthefuck_ you can't just barge in on me when I'm showering!" 

"You didn't lock the door." Kenny puts the toilet seat down and fucking takes a seat, crossing his fucking bird legs and perching his pointy ass elbow on his knee. He sighs, his chin on his fist. "I'm getting kind of bored of Craig."

Realizing Kenny isn't going to leave any time soon, I turn my body towards the wall to shampoo. Better he sees my ass than my dick. "You guys are fucking weird."

I can tell by Kenny's tone of voice that his nose is wrinkled. "He just like...wants a _relationship. _Like, dude no. He doesn't get me."

"I don't think anyone has or ever will get you," I point out sardonically as I massage foamy white shit into my scalp. "You're like the epitome of scum and confusion."

"Aw, Cartman learned a new word today!"

"Eat pussy, dickbag."

"Saw your girlf leaving in a huff," Kenny says as a lovely change of scenery. "What'd you do? Call out a guy's name when you came?"

"None of your business," I growl. Shampoo gets in my eye and it stings like a motherfucker. "Fucking fuck fuck _fuck_!"

Kenny sighs and makes a content little hmm noise before standing up. "Well, nice chatting with ya, roomie." With that, he reaches out and promptly flushes the toilet. I scream as the devil himself reaches out of the shower head to rape me, and Kenny promptly scampers out of the bathroom cackling like fucking Miss Almira Gulch.

Fucking connected water tanks.

_A/N: I know, I know, another fucking expositional chapter. At this point my updates are so sporadic, I don't think it really matters anymore. Review anyway? Thanks, babes._


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